In Memoriam
by bittercritic
Summary: A collection of drabbles, short fics, small writings, etc. All of a FrUK-ish nature.


Marianne has something of a saucy twitch to her hip, something in the contours of her ankle that makes her walk into a waltz. She'd be at home in a 1920s cabaret, in Berlin or Paris, but not London. Somewhere large, metropolitan, where she'd be treated like a queen, all lacquered red lips and shiny hair, done up in pinned curls. She's an easy sort of gorgeous, the kind of woman that makes herself look like she gets out of bed looking that way.

She's the leering sort certainly—she knows she's gorgeous and she makes it work for her. She knows which smiles to flash and when, and how to turn and walk and hold herself with the poise once expected of Victorian women.

That's why it's such a surprise when people find out she's living with Guinevere Kirkland. While not necessarily unrefined herself, the Englishwoman holds herself formally, with all the poise but none of the grace that Marianne exudes. She keeps her hair pinned back and her makeup simple, if she wears any at all. She could be a librarian, a stern one, but she still has a youthful face, one that puts her in her mid twenties, maybe. Younger than Marianne, probably.

They were not friends, per se, but rather something…else. Not quite friends, no longer enemies. Lost schoolchildren alone in the big wide read world without anyone to hold their hand, and they had clung to each other as people in similar situations tend to do. But they clung with claws and great reluctance.

Marianne is educated. Something of a dilettante, well respected in the art world—something of a curator but not quite. She's picked up job after job in museums and art galleries, first all across Paris and western Europe, now in the thick fog of London, and no one seems to question her credentials, if she has them at all. She's charming, and she knows the ropes better than half of the city, or she acts like she does.

But London was not for her. She hated the rain and the damp, and whenever she wasn't working she was at home. Like a flower that thrives in the desert, she'd trapped herself on a miserable rainy island, a place where she couldn't thrive.

Guinevere, on the other hand, was not imposing. She was not special, not in her own eyes. She was happy in her tiny flat, in her city, with her books and her films. She worked from home and worked all the better for it. She had a way of spinning words into gold—she could have written politician's speeches and made a fortune, but instead she kept herself to the realm of the fictional, drawing up great fantasy lands of intrigue and mystery. As a steadier job, she writes a column for a local rag, on music mostly, pop culture and films and new books and the latest political scandals. It's not quite a gossip rag, but it comes close.

She has fun with it thought. Some of it is pseudo-intellectualism and it will never be a true scientific or literary or cultural journal of any sort, but they have fun with it. It's how she meets Marianne one evening, at the opening of some high class gallery, with champagne and silly finger foods.

They are officially introduced towards the beginning of the event. The first thing Marianne notices is Guinevere's eyebrows—they're thick, but well tamed, and the woman is dressed in some slinky gown that clings beautifully. Marianne is a great appreciator of beauty, in all its forms, even testy, foul-tempered Englishwomen.

They don't hit it off.

Guinevere is wary of Marianne in some ways, unsure of how to handle herself. At heart, she'll always be a homebody, never quite comfortable in social situations. She defaults to stiff, unapproachable posture, and Marianne makes her uncomfortable because she doesn't have that problem.

It doesn't help that Marianne is very…physically intimidating. She's taller than Guinevere, and in heels and a rich, wine-red cocktail dress, looks like a Greek statue.

Being in the same bathroom had never been so awkward.

Marianne's attention had been caught. She knew, after asking around briefly, that the woman was a writer, and a successful one. She knew that she was skittish, and (from a gentleman in a very nice suit, red tie) generally refrained from outings such as exhibition openings.

So when she sidles off to the ladies room, Marianne follows.

Guinevere's startled a bit, by the other woman. She does not feel in any way composed. The room outside is hot and stuffy and uncomfortable, and her cheeks feel flushed—a quick look in the mirror proves that they are. The French woman—not doing anything but staring at her—isn't helping.

"Did you ah, need anything?" She cleared her throat, awkward still. She longs for a cosy jumper and a cup of tea. This is ridiculous—she's a grown woman and she should be able to handle a few hours away from home.

Marianne, on the other hand, is perfectly in her element at the party. She's no less awkward than Guinevere really, she's just better at hiding it. "You seemed rather stressed, mademoiselle." She lays the accent on thick, thicker than usual, even though she knows her English is perfect or nearly so. It makes an interesting first impression, she knows. "Ms. Kirkland, correct? Or do you prefer Guinevere?"

"Just Guinevere is fine. As I asked previously, were you in need of anything?"

"Your company, perhaps?"

And thus something between them is born. Not a friendship, it won't be for a while. But that evening they both abandon the stuffy gallery together, early, both of them shirking duties simultaneously.

They end up running through the rain, both of them in heels, dressed to the nines and made up, unable to find a cab, without an umbrella or a ride. It feels cinematic, though. They've both become children together, splashing through puddles in their pumps, Marianne's hand grabbing at Guinevere's, Guinevere running faster than Marianne, the two of them dragging each other along, shrieking with delighted laughter, because this is so much better than being in there.


End file.
